


Genji sends his love! xoxo

by potatopotato



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, M/M, Metal Fetish, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, not sure what I'm doing tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 14:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7055455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potatopotato/pseuds/potatopotato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hanzo.”</p><p>The wrong pronunciation of his name in a deep, gravelly voice, he hears the gunslinger even though he can’t see him. He knows he has seconds to react after the dizziness fades from the blinding flash. But as his fingers twitch with repulsion and his mind screams to move, he can’t. Something is terribly wrong. </p><p>“Looks like you ain’t goin’ nowhere soon.” McCree enters his vision, tossing a round object in the air and catching it, a sharp clank against his metal hand. “I’m no Winston, but this little thing here is my new concoction- ya’ll can’t say I use the same damn ol’ trick.” He leans forward, inches away from Hanzo’s face. “This puppy's got at least triple the strength, so you’d best get comfortable. Afterall, I’ve got a message from your brother,” he sneers and licks his bottom lip. “And it’s gonna to take some <em>sweet</em> time to deliver.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Genji sends his love! xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are.  
> Writing creatively for the first time.  
> Oh but not just any writing, oh no. Porn.  
> Gratuitous, plot-less porn.  
> Enjoy

“Hanzo.”

The wrong pronunciation of his name in a deep, gravelly voice, he hears the gunslinger even though he can’t see him. He knows he has seconds to react after the dizziness fades from the blinding flash. But as his fingers twitch with repulsion and his mind screams to move, he can’t. Something is terribly wrong. 

“Looks like you ain’t goin’ nowhere soon.” McCree enters his vision, tossing a round object in the air and catching it, a sharp clank against his metal hand. “I’m no Winston, but this little thing here is my new concoction- ya’ll can’t say I use the same damn ol’ trick.” He leans forward, inches away from Hanzo’s face. “This puppy's got at least triple the strength, so you’d best get comfortable. Afterall, I’ve got a message from your brother,” he sneers and licks his bottom lip. “And it’s gonna to take some _sweet_ time to deliver.” 

Fear skitters through him like electricity. If only he had reached the teleporter a second faster. The desolate shack McCree caught him in is so far away from the front lines. He thought he was safe. He was wrong. Here, no one would hear his cries.

His eyes scan the room rapidly, frantically looking for an opportunity, but only catching a mound of tumbleweeds gathered in a corner, an overturned trashcan, and a bar cleaned out long before now. The cowboy is busying himself with a show of goodwill, flipping the cylinder and letting the bullets hit the dirty linoleum floor, grunting “rest assured, I ain’t here to kill you,” but Hanzo’s barely listening. Just in his peripheral, there’s a long wooden table that ends at an open window. It’s littered with newspapers, but if he can propel himself sideways, there’s a chance he can slide outside where maybe a passing ally will save him. Maybe. Hope was better than nothing. 

He closes his eyes and envisions the task in his mind, as he’s done so countless times in meditation before training. It wouldn’t be that hard. Just a little twist and jump. Twist. Jump. Go! 

Knees buckling, he lurches forward straight into McCree. Fuck.

\---

McCree doesn’t bother with completely dismantling the black cotton fundoshi. He chuckles at the sight of it, “and they call me old fashion,” leaves it partially wrapped around his upper waist along with his silk sash. Although his trousers are only shucked down to where the robotic, high boots begin, Hanzo feels just as exposed as if he were stark naked. He stares determinedly at the ceiling, while one leg is lifted by a warm human hand. 

The gunslinger traces the tip of his prosthetic fingers on his exposed leg, from the back of his knee down his thigh. It’s wickedly cold and extremely ticklish. Hanzo wants to kick the smug smirk off his face, maybe add a couple arrows, but his planned noise of protest melds into an indignant squeak as the fingers brush against something much more sacred. 

His eyes involuntarily flicker to McCree’s face. 

“Just close your eyes and just pretend,” he purrs huskily. “Pretend I’m someone else with a cybernetic arm.” He gently presses his metal thumb to the outside, teasing by rubbing small circles. Face reddening with humility, Hanzo halfheartedly attempts to wriggle away from the thumb, but McCree laughs and pulls him back, hitching his leg over a shoulder in the process. A couple newspapers flutter to the floor, exposing the table surface and hands weakly grip the lacquered wood for purchase. The offending digit disappears and Hanzo breathes for a moment. Only to find two slim fingers slipping between his parted lips and brushing against his tongue. His first instinct is to clamp down, teeth against metal, but McCree gives him a piercing look and growls “I can make this painful, _dry_.” So Hanzo doesn’t bite, but also doesn’t give him the satisfaction of cooperatively wrapping his tongue around them. When they retreat, the lingering taste of metal vaguely reminds him of blood.

He can’t stop the escape of a choked gasp as McCree delicately draws a wet line down from the hair at base of his cock, across a testicle and pausing just in the space between. Even from his disadvantaged line of sight, he can see the cloth starting to take shape of his hardening form, a burning fire pooling on his groin. He feels heavy, like he’s drunk. The cowboy bends over, puffs hot air through the cotton and simultaneously pushes one unmistakably inhuman finger through the clenched ring of muscles. And it’s unbearably tight, too dry even with the aid of saliva, but Hanzo, with horror, releases a keen moan for more. 

“Woah, eager aren’t we?” With his forefinger inside, he caresses in careful circles, breaching deeper with every rotation. McCree’s free hand runs up and down his thigh, pausing to firmly grasp his ass and squeeze. A little bit of sweat must have ran down from his hairline as McCree swoops over and licks a stripe from his chin to his ear. “Fuckin’ sweet, like I said,” he whispers in Hanzo’s ear and nibbles at his earlobe. He smells like gunpowder and huckleberry. The bowman trembles uncontrollably as the second finger ghosts over where the first is, now picking up a slow rhythm. It’s only then that Hanzo realizes his neck is incredibly sensitive, when McCree snuffles onto his neck, breathing in the musk there, and bites. In the delicious pulse that comes from teeth scraping lightly on sensitive skin, Hanzo barely registers the second finger cramming itself with the first. 

“I’m known for my fingers,” McCree vouches, in between sucking on his Adam’s apple and moving to lick the area right underneath his jaw. “What do you think?,” he murmurs as suddenly Hanzo is hyper aware of the two metal appendages, as far as they can go, with the meat of McCree’s palm kneading his balls lazily. He tilts his fingers upwards and they barely nudge something that has Hanzo, with what little strength he has left, bucking his entire body onto the digits with a cry. “I take that as a yes,” says McCree happily and begins assaulting the point with deliberate halting and an inconsistent tempo. His sanity diminishes into delirious sobbing. The fundoshi soaks with wetness, clinging barely, in a mocking display of chasteness. He wonders if he’ll beg for McCree later for a stroke of his deft fingers and somehow in the midst of incoherent babbling, McCree hears and answers “No. Just like this.” He feels the human hand grip his stuttering hips. Next to his other leg dangling off the table ledge, McCree is self-indulgent, grinding, hot and languid onto the side surface. But he isn’t envious. With every brush, every leisurely touch, Hanzo tastes a drop of ecstasy that sparks and rakes through his body all the way down to his toes. 

Three fingers. The stretch is welcoming with its promised pleasure. Despite the hand on his hip, Hanzo desperately, in vain, tries to thrust onto them. “I reckon,” McCree ponders, grinning, “this is how it would feel like.” Chillness from the revolver’s muzzle traces the tight seal between the opening and McCree’s prosthetics. “His robot dick that is.” He smirks, and then finally, swiftly begins fucking Hanzo earnestly with his fingers. Hanzo hears what sounds like howling in the distance. When he clasps a hand over his mouth, the sound muffles. His eyes start rolling back. He’s close, so close.

And then just as abruptly, McCree stops. “Genji’s message is this,” he whispers. “Remember me, older brother.” 

Hanzo shudders and comes.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m your huckleberry lol
> 
> [please let me know if there are grammar, spelling...everything issues. I'm too embarrassed to show this to anybody I know irl. plz send help]


End file.
